


Branching Out A Little

by ThePornProject



Series: Pie with Dean Filling [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Humor, Lingerie, M/M, Sibling Incest, boys in lingerie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePornProject/pseuds/ThePornProject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's perpetually horny.  Dean's a perpetual tease.  Sam wants to fuck right now.  Dean refuses to fuck anywhere that's not a motel bed.  This is a situation which cannot stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Branching Out A Little

When they had started this _thing_ neither of them are too eager to define, Dean had laid down some Rules. “We do not fuck in the car,” he had said, brandishing his fork threateningly under Sam's nose and ignoring the sad speck of roasted potato that inched a little closer to the end of the tines with each gesture. “Not negotiable. I am _not_ going to be the one digging blunt needles into baby's upholstery seams to scrape out dried jizz flakes.”

 

 

Sex _on_ the car was equally immediately and absolutely forbidden. “You _do_ understand that I do not just waltz into the nearest Car-mart and order up a gallon of Chevy-paint, right? I'm not buffing out scratches and waxing over your ass-prints just because you can't wait 'til the motel to get your rocks off. And her suspension is _older than you_ Sammy. We are not fucking in, on, under or around my car, understand?”

 

 

It turned out that, for all the times Dean has mocked Sam's 'girly tendencies', Dean himself is _really fucking picky_ about where they have sex. And contrary to every single instance of his teen bragging, Dean is determinedly unadventurous.

 

 

Shower sex? “...it's a four-foot square stall.” Which, granted, okay point.

 

 

Wall sex? “Yeah I know I'm hot shit but I'm definitely not up to holding up your lard for ten minutes.” _Rude_.

 

 

Beach sex? _That_ one had netted Sam a 70 mile rant on MRSA that had continued all the way through their diner-burger lunch. “Staph infection Sammy. In your butthole. _Staph infection in your butthole Sammy_!”

 

 

Sam had metaphorically thrown up his hands and literally half-shrieked, “Well where the hell is the list of Your Highness-approved sexcapade locations?!” Dean had done some cheeky thing with his eyebrows that wasn't charming at all except for how it totally was and they both knew it. He had stuck up a finger and said 'Check please', suddenly reminding Sam of 'oh right, diner=public' and 'we can never come here again'.

 

 

Later Dean had responded to the implication that he was a vanilla lay by crushing an ice cube, tucking it into one cheek and giving what he called a 'slushie' and what Sam called the single most intense blow job of his entire life. Much, much later after that, once Sam had regrown a few of the wits handily hoovered right out through his dick, he levered his shoulders off the bed to glare down at the dark-blond head napping on his thigh. “Why are all the hypothetical situations about _my_ ass?”

 

 

“Because any hypothetical situation about my ass had better include a bed and you're the one who wants to like fuck on a pogo stick or something?”

 

 

Sam had fallen back to the bed with a theatrical sigh, and Dean had patted his hip unrepentantly.

 

 

See, the problem isn't that Sam has issues with how they have sex. Sam likes sex, and he really likes sex with Dean. The problem is that Dean is _Dean_ and Sam's spent about 85% of his life with a constant low-grade burning awareness of Dean's everything. Now that Dean's essentially his, playing to all of the barely-concealed possessive kinks Sam wears about as obviously as a ring on a finger? Yeah, Sam's pretty much always horny. And Dean, hedonist though he might be, would only smile _that_ smile and make Sam wait until they hit their home-sweet-motel for the night. Or, if he's being exceptionally jerkish, until the next night because it was absolutely imperative they drive through this one. Because Sam's massive case of blue balls is clearly hilarious.

 

 

But Sam? Sam's wily. Dean seems to forget that Sam has always matched him in their little games, even when he had the disadvantage in both height and muscle. Because Sam is wily and he doesn't lose. So Sam waits and plots and schemes until the perfect opportunity presents itself.

 

 

Today's hunt is the most hilarious bust they've ever had. It had looked like their kind of thing: two known animal abusers dead in the past year, both found bitten to death. By dogs, forensics had determined, but not just any dogs, oh no.

 

 

“Chihuahuas!” Dean giggles once they've pulled away from the town. “Fucking chihuahuas man!” Sam grins at both the situation and Dean's own fiendish delight. Sure it was _bad_. Those poor dogs were in for a long rehab to get them from pit fighters to adoptable, if it was even possible. But Sam's still too busy being grateful it was as mundane as a toy-breed fighting ring and not something like PETA-witches or a litter of hungry baby shifters. Or a Trickster. Sam shudders. Death by vicious chihuahuas sounds a hell of a lot like something a Trickster would enjoy and Sam would be more than happy to never see another one of _those_ ever again.

 

 

Dean is loose in the way he only ever is with an easy case behind them and the open road in front. He's in the remains of his Fed suit, tie loosened until the knot sits beneath his clavicle and undone top button, while his jacket found a home slung across the backseat. He's grinning free and easy in the orange light of late afternoon, hair a tousled mess and right arm slung carelessly across the back of the front bench. All's well in Dean's world, and when he's happy he exudes it, inviting everyone around to share in his good mood. If Sam didn't already love him, he'd be falling fast and hard right now.

 

 

Sam's also in his suit, still buttoned in and as pressed as possible given the day they had. His knee bumps the door softly every so often, swaying with the beat of the Impala down a country road. He's pressed nearly to the gear stick, stretching his legs as far as they go off to the right and leaning in to the brush of Dean's fingers off the back of his neck. There's a line of light brown at his collar where sweat has burbled up and settled in the crease. There's really not much else in the world Sam would need to make this completely perfect.

 

 

“Gonna ditch the noose anytime soon?” Dean asks. His blunt fingers worry at the little button on the back of Sam's shirt collar until it pops loose, then dart under to stroke back and forth against the silky fabric of his tie.

 

 

It's a red number, deep as wine and with a matching pocket square, a massive splurge from Men's Warehouse that Dean had coincidentally presented to him for no reason at all on their one-year anniversary of the 'Thing Which Shall Not Be Discussed I Mean It Sammy'. Sam only ever pulls it out for special occasions. He's well aware Dean's been wondering about it all day.

 

 

“Nah,” Sam says, and gives a little disgruntled sound when Dean makes to pull away. “Think I'll keep it on a while.” He lets his head thunk back, trapping Dean's hand between it and the leather. Dean laughs and simply twists his wrist to bury fingers in Sam's hair. Sam resists the urge to purr.

 

 

“Yeah?” Dean fires back, only slightly disbelieving but still good enough to keep scratching.

 

 

“Hmm,” Sam hums and pretends to think about it. “Yeah.”

 

 

The Impala eats up another five or six miles before Dean takes the bait.

 

 

“Any particular reason?”

 

 

Sam hums again. The ends of the tie are cool where they wind around his fingers and feel wonderful against his barest hint of stubble when he presses it to his face. “Like the feel of it. And the color. Same color as my panties.”

 

 

Sam doesn't have to look up, doesn't have to move his half-lidded gaze from an indistinct spot on the dashboard to know that Dean's face does the physical equivalent of a record scratch. He has this thing he does where he's not sure which direction to look first that leaves him twisting in a comical double-take. Sam can almost trace the progression of it in his mind.

 

 

“Wanna run that by me again?” Dean's voice dips low, tells Sam he's interested but wary.

 

 

“Got matching panties,” Sam says so very easily. Heard so much hype, wanted to see what was up. They feel _incredible_ , not gonna lie.” By now Dean's fingers have stopped moving and his left hand is clenched tight to the steering wheel.

 

 

“That right?”

 

 

Sam stretches. His arms go one way, his legs go another and he's all long, languid lines of satisfaction. “Thaaaaat's right,” he breathes and flashes a grin. “But you know me, never do anything by halves. Couldn't just get the panties.”

 

 

Dean swallows hard. “Yeah? What else you got?”

 

 

“You should find out.”

 

 

Too much, too fast. Damn, Sam showed his hand too quickly and Dean caught it immediately because of course he did. He's on to Sam's game now, or at least a part of it, and Dean's not one to play unless he plays to win.

 

 

“Maybe I should,” he replies, a shadow of his cocky grin back. “Got another couple hours of daylight before we stop, though.”

 

 

Blast and damnation. Sam refuses to pout. The fingers in his hair feel smug, and just how does Dean do that anyway: radiating smugness all the way down to his digits? Dean's driving with the heel of his palm, tapping along to some 80s power ballad in his head but mercifully not singing. He thinks he's won. Sam lets him for a good twenty minutes.

 

 

“So I actually had to cut my toenails this morning,” Sam eventually begins. Before Dean could chime in with something insulting, he continues. “Terrified I'd mess up the stockings on the very first wear.” Dean is slipping back into that predatory awareness, tipping his head just so slightly as if to better catch sound. “I read online that the more spandex pantyhose has, the sturdier it is. But the pretty sheer ones are the ones that have the least spandex and so really breathing on them wrong could put a ladder right up the length of them. Of course, the really cheap ones are pure nylon, but those aren't so great for support. They'll cling, but not _hug_ , you know?”

 

 

About here's the time Dean would chip in with a quip about some sexist bullshit that neither of them actually believe but Dean feels he has to make, if only for tradition. Today though, he is silent, eyes riveted on the slowly dimming road as if the key to life can be found there.

 

 

“So, as it turns out, buying pantyhose is _hard_. They don't make female ones with my length of leg, not really, and buying stuff from sites that cater to guys either felt skeevy, was way too expensive or had too long of a shipping time so I had to improvise.” Sam lowers his voice and is ecstatic to see Dean lean just a little bit closer to hear. “I bought extra large thigh-highs,” Sam admits in a bare murmur, as if ashamed. “Still only comes up to about 5 inches above my knee. And I didn't _know_ they would do that thing where they'd just roll right down your leg if you leave 'em long enough. Guess I'm just not shaped the way they're used to, 's why they kept bunching up around my calf.” Sam leaned back fully, the curve of his skull resting on his brother's wrist. “Lucky for me,” he said far too innocently, “my corset has garter loops.”

 

The Impala jerks off the side of the road and screams to a stop. Sam only has a second or two to grin in smug satisfaction before Dean pounces and bears him down to the seat.


End file.
